


there is no sun here

by kinpika



Series: BLUE [12]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Last thing left in their locker at headquarters, Old things left behind, Was a prompt on the server that spiralled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 08:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19989064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: Logan makes a face, as if she was weighing her options. Neither of you notice how you had crumbled the pen in your hand. “Through people.”“That’s a lie.”“Then you work out the truth.”





	there is no sun here

It’s the question that hangs in the air, longer than it should. No one knew the answer, apart from you and the four walls. You, and the eyes in the building. But it was hidden and fragile and broke you in ways you hadn’t bothered to pick up yet, to just remember something like that.

Yet, it was the only way to make sure. Put the pressure on. If only because you had tiptoed around the reality since Logan had begun to give you the half-truths. Still didn’t wrap your head around it all.

A small part of you knows, it’s because you didn’t want to believe it to be true.

So you repeat the question: “what was left behind in Logan Walsh’s locker?”

Mixed blessing that Logan couldn’t read your mind, be it the real one, this one, whoever. That much still held true — you think. Have to believe. Think about everything other than the contents of her long gone locker.

And you think you’ve won. Boxed yourself in to that belief, when the silence stretches on. Fold your arms across your chest, ready to leave it all behind.

Until she smiles. A grin that spreads in a way you don’t recall ever seeing, but it prickles at the corners of your mind. Like it was wholly unfamiliar but, _but_ , a reminder that perhaps you never ever knew her, anyway. No, you did. (no, you didn’t)

“A pocket watch, with a sun and moon detailed on the metal. Too fiddly for your hands.”

The floor goes out underneath your feet, and you know how you look. Eyes wide, body going slack. No one knew. No one could’ve possibly known, except you, the walls, and the empty casket in the park.

“How did you—” You have to argue, no, this is wrong! Logan was the only one who knew.

She checks her nails, idle, bored. “It probably stopped working, right? Didn’t have much in it anyway. Time was always wrong on the damn thing.”

True. _True true true_. Suck in a deep breath, hold it, release. You weren’t trying to be abhorrently romantic when you know that it stopped working once you’d put the casket in the ground. That and it was off, by a few hours. And it wasn’t just because of the current running through your fingers — more like the little thing decided enough was enough.

“Did you ever manage to get it open?”

Look up, again. “What?”

“Get it… open?” Logan frowns, eyes quickly working up and down over you, seeing something you didn’t. “You still have it, right?” Her fingers flex against her arms, a reaction you file away.

“Yes.” In a safe place, where you know only _you_ were sure of the location. That much you could confirm.

“Then… did you open it or not?”

Whilst it may not have held such an electric current as most, it did run the risk of minutely exploding in your hands. And with the look you give Logan, as if she should’ve known this, she does seem to reconsider her words.

“Didn’t get anyone else to help? Fuck, Ortega? Really?”

The revelation pisses her off, and she’s edgy. Tapping her fingers along the table. You know this reaction — it’s when she really needed a smoke. But you’re not entirely sure you could work that to your advantage.

So you swallow, voice getting lower than you wanted. More open than it should’ve. “It was private. A gift from you.” Logan had never been the bearer of much in your experience. When you’d been assigned to empty the locker that _you_ had specifically left aside for her, that was all that was left.

Along with a little note, signed with a kiss. “I didn’t think to share it, with anyone.” And it’d stopped working, just like that. Fitting, for that period of time. You don’t share those thoughts, but perhaps they’re there, on your face, with how Logan looks away. Always uncomfortable in the face of sheer emotion.

That hadn’t changed.

“It would’ve helped your ‘investigation’.” Tone clipped, but she’s looking at you again. “Lot of information crammed in, honestly.”

“Huh?”

“ _Microfilm_. Definitely rare, these days.” With how her fingers sparkle out, as she emphasises the word, you can’t quite put your finger on what it is you’re feeling.

“I would’ve—”

“You didn’t open the watch. You wouldn’t have known.” She pauses, looking up. Down again. “I mean it’s probably old by now, but not totally ineffective.” Eyes roll to the side, and she’s talking to herself. “Depends on how much he put in it.”

Logan mumbles to herself, as if she’s recounting off the top of her head what should be in it. But there’s a co-conspirator to this equation. One you don’t know. And the walls are fracturing, bit by bit. You liked keeping the cards against your chest.

So you ask the question: “Who is ‘he’?” You’re on the outside now. Looking in. Still asking the questions and pushing all the buttons, but Logan is the wiser party. Shift in the balance, where you thought you had the upper hand.

How much didn’t you know about, really? Just what weren’t you seeing?

Realising her mistake, the slip of her tongue, Logan reels back. Fingers clench into her arms, and she seems to mull over the words. Jumps two questions ahead, with her answer. “It wasn’t mine, anyway.”

Politely, you ignore the way her mind leaves your question behind, continuing on as if it had barely been a beat in conversation. “Whose was it, then?” And, and you feel like you don’t want to know the answer to your question. To _this_ specific question.

All the other ones don’t matter, judging by how she raises her brows, looks the other way. “It was… Hood’s.” Winces, as the name leaves her.

“Hood?” That gets you. Like a kick to the gut. Would you have preferred her to lie? Play a long game with the truth? “How did you get this from—how do you know it was his?”

The answer is of course: no, you wouldn’t have. Facts were important.

Just like how you knew, _fact_ , all his personal effects had been collected. Distributed. You’d received the bike, paperwork, job. Working backwards through that list. Left with a hole, right in your gut. Nothing could ever fix it, and you suppose, it just got worse as time went on.

Logan makes a face, as if she was weighing her options. Neither of you notice how you had crumbled the pen in your hand. “Through people.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Then you work out the truth.”

You don’t want to. She knows that.

“How in the world would someone like me, get a hold of something like _that_?”

And that was the million dollar question, wasn’t it? The cold in the room, that was running up your legs, holding you in place. Pieces fit together as you stare, ones you had ignored, others you had thought too ridiculous to be true. Altogether now, mosaic in likeness in your mind.

Logan is leaning back in the chair, balancing on two legs. “There’s only a handful of options here, Ortega. Believe what you want.”

You don’t want to believe what your thoughts immediately jump to. Staring at your hands, how the ink stains your skin, and you _don’t._ Don’t? Don’t want that. Don’t need that. Like another little piece of yourself is flayed off, exposing the nerve. Strange to think there’s even anything left, anymore, so you look up.

She’s taunting you. You can see it in her eyes. Which makes you fall into the trap of questions again. Was this really Logan? Was this just some pretender? Too much knowledge, and she dances out of the way you make a grab, barely dodging the table, her chair clattering to the ground. But you’ve cornered her by the fridge, sweep a leg out, and with how she turns, you no longer believe the lies. Being out of practice. _Out of shape._ Logan may hit the ground, and you may lean over her, pushing her back down.

But that snarl isn’t from someone who just left it all behind. Hold her down, weight against her throat. Breathe, Ortega, breathe. Have to let your fingers go a little loose. Slack, that’s it. Release her windpipes.

Don’t kill her. Not when she smiles like _that_.

“Kinky.”

Fuck it. Bear down again, and the smile fizzles out. Lost in how she clears her throat, trying to breathe. “Try me.”

The eyebrows raise in challenge again. Smile wicked and sharp. With how her fingers wrap around your wrist, pulling you in closer, you think you should’ve listened to Argent when she’d said something. About how much Logan _taunted_ her. About how you can almost feel the push, _just do it_.

You roll back. Seriously this time. Hand still on the front of her shirt, but you pull your weight off. Drag her to her feet and push her into a chair. “Answer me. Now.”

Logan’s eyes drop to where your hand still is, back up once more. “Like this?”

“ _Exactly_ like this.”

Licks her lips in a way you follow, and the grin isn’t wiped away. If anything, wider. Sinking in. You’re going to remember this one. With how she traces scars on your wrist with the tip of her finger, and whispers, “only if you ask nicely.”

Shake her. Can feel the hairs on your arms stand on end. And _that_ gets the reaction you don’t want, but need. Wipes her face clean, and she’s staring now, at your hand. Patchwork scars along her temple. You remember her comment, the other night.

How that misfire had inadvertently given her more time. More freedom. You can only ask yourself, at what cost? Work out times and dates later, but you let the lightning fizzle over your skin. Seemed to give you the right reaction, as she tilts her head away once more.

“Tell me. _Now_.”

Logan smells of lilacs and memories, of stargazing drunk on rooftops, of stakeouts in the middle of nowhere. Her eyes were that familiar dark, and you could probably name a few select scars gathered in the times you ran together. But the look on her face is foreign, the curl of her lip out of place. You realise then, she hadn’t aged, not really. Like she’d always been. Plucked out of seven years in the past, and put _right_ here, at this moment.

You hate that you don’t understand. You hate that you don’t want to know. But Logan opens her mouth, and the venom drips louder, drowning everything else out.


End file.
